


nothing gold can stay

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, May/December Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘Something like a word, a name slips out of her mouth. Her soles shift away from the floorboards as she rocks up a little on her tiptoes. There is no laughter now, just the tip of his tongue settling on her pulse-point, his lips closing there a second later. Her limbs ache to unfold, to be held in his hands: spread and moved and fixed.’Another [impromptu] one-shot, featuring silver fox Jon.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 25
Kudos: 113
Collections: summer rain





	nothing gold can stay

**Author's Note:**

> > title taken from venice bitch by lana del rey // poem by robert frost 🌙 #feltcutemightdeletelater—but for now it is nice to feel well enough to write again! hope you enjoy [another](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942006) visit w silver fox Jon, loves x

She is the first one to retreat upstairs once dinner is done. He lingers — ever the good-mannered guest — in the archway between the kitchen and the dining room, stacking plates before passing them to her mother. The steady clink of chinaware and cutlery accompanies his soft, practised chatter; she turns to take the top stair, breathless with a bursting heart.

The bedroom rests in semi-darkness, a few filtered slips of moonlight turning its shadows silver-tipped. Her hair falls across her shoulder as she leans to switch one of the bedside lamps on. It flashes to life like lightning, makes little stars swim behind her lids.

After a moment, she opens her eyes again. The window beckons to her, beads of glimmer pooled on its glass: splitting, sparkling.

He finds her there sometime later, staring out over the rain-washed trees with the cord of the blind woven between her fingers like a ribbon. The door clicks shut quietly.

‘I promised you snow.’

The wool of his sweater rustles as he shrugs. ‘I don’t mind a little sleet.’

‘Not cold enough for that,’ she says. ‘Yet.’

For a beat, they stand in their moon-struck spots very quietly. He releases the little huff of breath through his nose at the same moment she lets the blind-cord flutter free from her fingers. A brush of warmth against her neck, the heat of him behind her. She steps back to meet him.

‘Dinner was— ’

‘Fine,’ he murmurs. ‘Lovely, in fact.’

She feels breathless again. His palm slowly presses in below her left breast; she wants to lift his hand to her mouth, put her lips to the scar across his knuckles. Bit by bit, she melts into the bow of his body. The beat of his heart against her spine is steady, smooth as the raindrops drifting down the window-glass.

‘I had a drink with your dad.’

A ridge of tension flickers along her jaw. ‘Oh?’

‘Mm.’ His voice is a hum, light on her lobe. ‘Good bourbon. A fine vintage.’

‘Is this where I make a joke about it being well-aged?’

‘Only if you feel like it.’

The tension dissolves like wine in her blood. A smile flickers along her jaw now, then a laugh: soft, quiet as his own breathy chuckle against her cheekbone. His fingers find the first button of her blouse. She shivers when his hand slips inside to touch her bare skin; the little circle he is drawing with a thumb is enough to make her wet.

Something like a word, a name slips out of her mouth. Her soles shift away from the floorboards as she rocks up a little on her tiptoes. There is no laughter now, just the tip of his tongue settling on her pulse-point, his lips closing there a second later. Her limbs ache to unfold, to be held in his hands: spread and moved and fixed.

He catches the whimper she makes with a kiss that tastes of whiskey, woodsmoke.

‘On the bed,’ he breathes. ‘Now, Sansa.’

The muscles tighten in her belly. Heat maps a path across her chest: a flush of it breaking out beneath her skin. Like grit, the gravel of his voice grinds into her bones till her blood makes pearls of it. She feels them glide through her veins as she sags back onto the mattress, the piled quilts rising up to meet the contours of her body.

His fingertip traces the curve of her hip, then hooks beneath her belt.

In the breath before he pulls her to the edge of the bed, she lets her gaze rove over him: slowly, dreamily. His sweater is gone, the shirt beneath rumpled just enough to show a glimmer of his belly. Her fingers dance toward the hem of it, hungry to graze across the hard heat of his muscles, the rippled lines of his ribs.

He dips to his knees instead, slides the leather from its loops, the jeans from her hips. The denim catches around one ankle; before she can kick it free, her legs are shouldered. She is held in his hands: spread, moved — fixed.

‘Jon.’

The shape of it on her tongue, the answering word on his own working its way to her undoing. Distantly, she hears the sound of something ripping: a twist of cotton, silk knotted round his fingers before his thumb sweeps back over the swell of her thigh. He opens his mouth on her, and she wonders if this is what prayer should sound like.

‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘God, yes.’

It takes minutes; but it feels like hours, days. That slow drawing out of a whip-thin point of pleasure, a bloom, a blossom that spreads and spreads till her heart is beating between her legs, till she feels like liquid, like dark wine slowly poured into the censer of the bed. Little stars swim behind her lids again; a lightning-flash all her own scorches the sound that ebbs up from deep inside her chest.

He muffles her cry with the fingers of his left hand. She is open to the other, that thumb drawing slippery circles till she pricks his palm with her teeth. A little growl rumbles against the inside of her thigh, then he lifts his hands away. The bed dips beneath his weight as he moves up from his knees.

There is something wild in the swift, smooth way he covers her like smoke. But his eyes are clear: a cloudless sky, rain-damp. He is calmer to have made her come, to have kneaded the last of the tension from the lines of her body with his lips, his tongue, his fingertips. Calm as she is boneless, beckoning.

He catches the hand she is lifting toward him, presses a kiss to the palm of it.

‘Dinner was fine,’ she says suddenly — and they laugh together softly, smokily. ‘Wasn’t it?’

‘It was.’

‘Lovely, in fact.’

‘Mm,’ he murmurs. ‘Come here.’

Rain patters at the window, a lonely leaf presses against the glass till another lifts from the dark trees to join it.

He is above her, against her, on her, inside and within her. The last of summer clings to his skin: little white creases the sun couldn’t catch at the corners of his eyes, the citrusy taste on his tongue. There are wintry threads of moonlight in his hair, too. She counts them, follows the silver strands with her fingertips.

An ache in her throat.

Nothing gold can stay: the sun will fade from his skin, they will return to the city from this brief spell in the rain-washed quiet of home, the seasons will change, and life alongside it. But silver — the way it sparkles. Like rain, like a jewel in the light.

She puts her face to the crook of his neck. ‘Thank you.’

‘Hmm?’

‘For coming here with me,’ she says softly. ‘You didn’t ask for a label. Never even wanted one.’

A palm to her nape; their faces level, slowly.

‘I want you,’ he says — and she has never seen this weight to his eyes before. ‘I want you and all that comes with you.’ His thumb slips beneath her chin, props it up gently. ‘Okay?’

‘Okay.’

He kisses her softly. She feels it like a bruise: some slow, inky spread blooming on her lips, across her skin. Then he moves his hips just slightly and she remembers that he is inside her, that there are other whip-thin points of pleasure treading water, waiting to be drawn out over days and hours and minutes and weeks and years.

Years.

Sansa tips back her head as his thumb slides down her throat. Reflexively, her legs part wider; her heel trails the back of his thigh lazily, then lifts away. He moves a little deeper and she gasps, blinks up at him: the knowing lift of his lips, the wolfish gleam to his eyes that brings out the bit of wildness howling behind her own. 

‘That drink you had…’

Jon crooks a dark brow down at her. ‘What about it?’

‘Was the bourbon as old as you?’

The smile he gives her — the way it sparkles. Like rain, like a jewel in the light.

(A jewel that is hers alone to marvel at, to laugh with, to love.)

* * *


End file.
